


Hangman

by Wecanhaveallthree



Category: Warhammer 40.000
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:34:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22033396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wecanhaveallthree/pseuds/Wecanhaveallthree
Summary: Ciaphas Cain, Hero of the Imperium, is pulled out of a comfortable retirement for a posting with the newly-formed Battlefleet Redemptor - a role that will not, it seems, require the usual suicidal heroism expected of him. But if something looks good too good to be true in the Astra Militarum, it likely is...A take on the character and Sandy Mitchell's distinctive writing style.
Comments: 14
Kudos: 143





	Hangman

The governor’s holiday palace - a term that only the rarified strata of Imperial nobility don’t find immediately ridiculous - sprawled like a tipsy socialite over a plump green sofa. Wings of manses and villas swept out like ruffled skirts, and water-gardens and small playing fields studded the grounds carelessly as a necklace threaded with the dynastic jewels. There was a cosmopolitan bend to the Imperial architecture, a daring modernity that included no more graven skulls and scowling saints than strictly necessary.

It was impressive, no doubt about that, but I’d been a guest in domiciles carved from hollow moons and bastions where the violence of the Reign of Blood hadn’t quite been buffed off the bannisters. When you’ve put as many years into running away from the terrors facing our Imperium as I have, soon enough you develop an easy familiarity with these monuments of self-importance, if only in the rear-view mirror of a Salamander scout tank.

What _did_ impress me was the sheer wastefulness of the whole affair.

Dragged out of a comfortable retirement teaching the young pups of the Commissariat because Abaddon didn’t have the good grace to know when he’d been beaten, I’d travelled halfway across the sector in various stages to link up with Battlegroup Redemptor. Green as they come, both in terms of Navy shake-downs and Guard regiments drummed up in haste, Redemptor had plenty of enthusiasm but little experience to temper it with.

The way it had been described to me - in almost apologetic terms by a full colonel from High Command, who I’m not sure was more humbled by meeting a Hero of the Imperium or that she’d been reduced to messenger duty - was that it would be an almost entirely advisory role.

Discipline was the meat and gristle of new regiments, and an abundance of cadet Commissars waving their virgin bolt-pistols about would sink Redemptor before she even set sail. Whatever came out of the troop landers on the worlds unlucky enough to meet the Battlegroup would make a mob of orks look like Tempestus Scions, and the chances of any of that bright-eyed black-coated group who shared my vocation surviving to see it were infinitely close to zero.

Having a Hero of the Imperium knocking about would stiffen the backs of the fresh officers as well as the Commissariat, and ensure they thought a little before they threw away the lives of good Guardsmen.

I had paused only long enough to make sure the colonel believed that I would say no and demand a front-line role right on the bleeding edge of the Maledictum, before putting on a brave face and suggesting that this old war-horse would be thankful to serve the Throne in any capacity still left to him. A cushy position with a whole fleet and several regiments between me and any possible foe, a position of permanent and vital necessity that would put me well beyond the devious minds of High Command and whatever suicide missions they could dream up? The only difficult part of my decision was keeping a straight face while the colonel thanked me for answering the Emperor’s call once more with the deep sincerity only a true believer could manage.

So it felt like a bad joke to be pushing away from a table made from some exotic, absurdly expensive foreign woodwork while assorted hangers-on, career diplomats and the occasional confused-looked uniform tried to navigate the eddies and swirls of their different social altitudes. For many of the fresh-faced officers, it was akin to mountaineering bare-handed, but I restrained myself from interfering except in the most egregious cases of bad manners.

A bad joke, but like everything else in the Imperium, deadly serious. Without the good graces of the various dignitaries and representatives of His Divinity, the whole thing would devolve into bickering and infighting before the Archenemy even had a chance to bring war once again to our walls. I didn’t much fancy doing Abaddon’s job for him if it came to that.

At the very least, the twelve-course feast had put a damper on any real argument. It’s hard to challenge the woman next to you to an honour duel when it feels like you’ll split if you’ll stand. This had been the routine for close on two weeks now - gatherings and greetings, getting-to-know-yous, and other social pleasantries that a new battlegroup from a variety of diverse backgrounds needed to work together. I was certainly content to let things carry on as they were for the foreseeable future, and if Redemptor spent the rest of the year depleting the governor’s palace of fine food and wine, I had no complaints.

Still, it wouldn’t do to be adding notches to my new belt, so I excused myself as politely as possible from the political melee - professing a desire to take stock of the ongoing muster of men and munitions, to which heads bobbed, equally politely, no doubt impressed by my dedication to duty - and withdrew from the gilded hall in search of a quiet spot to take a nap.

Discreet and liveried servants stood at each hallway junction, beside busts of old rulers and tin despots and dignitaries of local note, though none questioned my freedom of movement about the place. Perhaps that could be put down to the snapping crimson of the Commissariat sash, a key that has unlocked many a door in the past and that even civilians know better than to question, or perhaps they had been ordered to simply stand by and endure the scuffing of deep, expensive carpets by the palace’s recent guests.

Besides, it wasn’t like it would be easy to get lost. Despite all the pretension towards uniqueness and self-importance, every one of these sprawling complexes tends along the same lines, and the holiday retreat had been pulled almost directly from a standard template somewhere.

Having surreptitiously confirmed my suspicions on the initial tour - while mentally noting the best fall-backs and choke-points for any unpleasantness that might descend upon us, and the clearest way to the palace’s armoured shuttle bay - it took me little time to navigate away from the marble ostentatiousness of the main concourse. Mirroring the rich old men who owned them, the palace nethers tended towards optimism rather than regular use, and I knew for a reasonable fact that the volumes in the secluded librarium had layers of dust that likely had a longer lineage than the current governor.

The fine oak door was unbolted and clicked shut softly behind me. The librarium was much as I’d left it the last time - softly temperate, dimly-lit, with a surfeit of deep lounge-chairs and recliners. The sturdy cases that groaned under the weight of ancient volumes formed an almost-impenetrable labyrinth and the sound-dampening was of the highest quality. There could be a Founding Day celebration the next row over and I’d be none the wiser.

The only way I would have felt more secure in this guilty pleasure is if Jurgen were stationed on the door, but exposing the high nobility to my aide’s unique blend of obstinance and odour wouldn’t have gained me many friends. I had sent him to the kitchens to see if there was tanna to be rousted, and no doubt he was enjoying something vaguely meat-related from an unidentifiable brown bag even now.

But despite that, knowing I was in a heavily-shielded retreat with half a battlefleet in orbit, I felt that familiar itch. It was, of course, too late to announce to a supposedly-empty room that I’d made a wrong turn when looking for the lavatory.

I’d been anticipated.

‘Ciaphas Cain,’ spoke a voice, used to command and equally experienced in softening it to speak to mere mortals. A voice I’d heard on more than one prop-vid over the last few years. ‘They told me you were a clever man, Commissar, but even so, I hadn’t expected you so soon.’

From behind a towering bookcase came an equally towering man. Though to call Roboute Guilliman, the Primarch Reborn, a mere man would be giving the species far more credit than it deserved. I’d met great men and women who radiated authority and intellect, who embodied everything it meant to be a paragon of our Imperium. I’d been in the presence of, and served with, the inhuman Space Marines whose relation to us their similarity only widened.

Guilliman was both, out of all proportion. No room could contain him. He was the living son of Him on Terra, and it was impossible not to be overawed. Even for me, with a soul which could be creditably assessed as ‘somewhat grubby’, it was like a religious experience.

What kept me from dropping to my knees in immediate praise was two things. Firstly, that the Primarch had an enormous volume of middling Estland poetry in one hand, and a look on his face that put me in mind of a schola student caught with a porn-slate rather than a demigod. Secondly, he wore robes of simple, stately gray and went barefoot on the deep carpet.

I could not look away from his toes.

I’d made a terrible mistake of having breakfast in the officer’s mess rather than with the politicians, and they’d served heapings of grox sausages. And that’s what the holy toes of the Lord Commander reminded me of: wriggly grox sausages. Throne preserve me, I couldn’t keep the smile from twitching up the corners of my mouth.

And, of course, Guilliman took it completely the wrong way. His voice was all approval. ‘Even during the Crusade, few were the men who would greet me with a smile, Commissar.’

It’d be impossible to correct the record now. I’d no doubt only confirmed my already-bloated reputation in the eyes of what was, quite truthfully, the very highest power in the Imperium. No doubt if I demurred or indicated anything but that I was, indeed, utterly fearless and had been expecting this meeting, the Primarch would see through all the other great coincidences of my life.

Worse, he might tell his father.

I simply nodded - a cool response that indicated the Primarch could set the conversational tone, with my permission - though in reality, if I’d tried to speak I’d have sounded like one of those _castrati_ who sing in the choirs of Bethelnum.

The Primarch laid down his book on a nearby table. His own emotions were less frozen, his face more expressive - there was a sadness there, I thought. I reminded him of something, some happy moment in the distant past, and it was contrasting badly with the position he found himself in at the moment.

‘My apologies, Commissar.’ His voice, too, was pitched lower. ‘You have caught me ruminating.’

I’d made it this far in life with one maxim in dangerous situations: keep them talking. They’re less likely to shoot you if you’re listening. ‘I’m no confessor, lord, but I’d hear your thoughts.’

A great eyebrow arched at the word ‘confessor’. Even I was aware of the problems Guilliman had had with the Faith since his triumphant return. The Imperial Creed had been smaller in his day, most likely, and he was struggling to take in its enormous, overwhelming presence on Imperial life now. Plus, the Divinatus-thumpers could get on anyone’s nerves, so I didn’t blame him.

‘Once, I would have kept them to myself,’ the Primarch replied. ‘But we come by the stars conquered by my brothers, and I feel the weight of all the words unspoken between us. To many I never revealed my admiration: jealousy stopped up the words, or pride, or unseemly ambition. Russ, with all his hard-won swagger and courage, or Jaghatai, who held the Palace when I could not even come to Terra. Dorn. Vulkan. _Sanguinius_.’

The last was spoken with a tone of true sorrow. Sanguinala had just passed, and the memories would be weighing heavily even on the superhuman. Though the priests said that the Angel had sacrificed his life to save the Emperor, that was small comfort to a man who had to live in a galaxy where his brothers were dead.

How do you lift the morale of a Primarch? Somehow, summary execution didn’t seem appropriate, given the circumstances. I’d have to fall back on the last refuge of scoundrels - honesty.

‘You must think we’ve made a pretty awful hash of things while you were gone, lord.’

His head came up. His eyes bored into mine - there were tempests behind them, though he did not crush me into a fine film, which was a good start.

‘The truth is, we have. We’re not like you, but I won’t ask forgiveness for that. The Emperor made you to be better than us. That’s fine. You won’t hear me complain about it. But that _is_ what he made you for, and that’s something you’d made for yourself, too. You could have said no. You could have left again, but here you are.’

His response was exactly what I had assumed it would be. Bitter, angry, and wrathful. ‘I’m not a soldier under your command, Commissar. I have given _everything_ to this Imperium.’ He advanced like an avalanche, and it was fear, not courage, that kept me standing before him. ‘Everything! And here you stand, your sole purpose to kill those who don’t follow the ruin you’ve made of my father’s dreams. You look up from the _ashes_ of this Imperium and tell me that _I_ haven’t done enough? You _dare_?’

Without conscious thought - if it had been deliberate, I’d have been halfway to an orbital lifter by that point - I stepped forward to meet him, though the effect was rather lost on a man so tall. Like a puppy sidling up to a mature _coran_. ‘I dare, lord. You can’t have it both ways. You can’t say you’re here to drag us up and out of this mess while insulting our attempts to do the same. We’ve been waiting and praying for _ten thousand years_ , lord. We were _never_ enough to stand up to this galaxy, but we’ve hung on, we’ve bled and fought and _died_ to keep the dream alive, then you arrive and the first thing you say is that _we_ haven’t tried hard enough?’

I shoved him. It was like trying to push a tank, but it was surprise that made him take a half-step back. ‘Where were _you_ , lord?’

It took the fire out of him. Though some said the Lord Commander had lain in state in Ultramar for thousands of years, I’d always wondered how he’d gotten there in the first place. Demigods weren’t supposed to _lose_ , though I suppose some must have, at some point in time. The Lord Commander was supposed to be the most intelligent of his brothers, the most tactically gifted - and yet he’d ended up in stasis on his homeworld, by some means.

He turned away. Red crept across his face like a fiery sunrise. Shame wasn’t a feeling that came easily to most men - especially men like Roboute Guilliman.

Neither was the feeling of helplessness. I knew it well - I’d served in the Guard long enough to see my share of losing battles, of conflicts we could never win, of sacrifices _now_ so that the lights would go out a bit later on. People better than I had struggled with it, had lost that fight, had retired in shame or eaten their sidearms. For a Primarch - for someone of those titanic emotions - that helplessness would be like a cold knife, coming in inch-by-inch.

‘We can do better, lord,’ I said. I hadn’t realised I’d been shouting until I felt, and heard, how my voice rasped. ‘So can you.’ And, with a sting of shame of my own, I added, ‘And I’d prefer us not to get off on the wrong foot, though I may have already done exactly that.’

‘No,’ Guilliman replied, and there was respect, now, as well as a welcome. ‘I am used to deference. Too used to it. When you are considered infallible, few will tell you what you need to hear, believing that you have a plan or contingency or understanding of it all. A reputation for intelligence can surround a man in ignorance.’ He made a wan face. ‘I should have written that in the Codex.’

‘There’s always time for revision, lord.’

‘Revision. Yes. That’s part of the reason I wanted to meet you, Ciaphas.’

If I knew what direction the conversation would have taken, instead of listening politely and with increasing horror, I’d rather have gotten up on the dinner table in front of High Command, naked, and done a highland jig...


End file.
